Their Vicious Games(36)

“We should go to the common room,” I say, the thought sparking.

“Why?”

“Because that’s where they’ll be. And I want them to see me,” I say firmly.

Saint’s mouth twitches. “Risky, but could have good payoff if you want to unbalance Esme,” she says. “And she needs some unbalancing.”

“Agreed.”

When we enter the common room, I push my shoulders back.

Esme is holding court, dressed like a queen in a red gown with a plunging neckline, with Hawthorne standing at her right hand. Hawthorne has always looked like a porcelain doll to me. Dainty, rose-cheeked, pale, and breakable. She looks even more so next to her best friend, in a sea-green dress that looks more suited for a sixties mod girl, her long blond hair spilling down her back to meet her short hem. But tonight, shockingly, she’s the one in the diamond collar.

“—course is unwieldy, but hold to the right and stay in tight formation and we’ll make it through. Are we clear?” Esme says coldly, tapping on the map she has spread over the coffee table, the other girls, dripping in taffeta, all nodding seriously, like this is a war meeting.

Esme stops when she notices me in the doorway. “Walker, why are you dressed in this season’s de la Renta? Aren’t you poor?”

Aren’t you about to be? I bite my tongue. There are other ways to challenge Esme, to demonstrate that I’m ahead of her in this game.

Instead, I smile sweetly. “Aunt Leighton noticed that I was… lacking in more formal wear. She just wanted to make sure I feel like I belong.” And I do.

“You look like a pretender,” Esme accuses.

“Leighton doesn’t think so,” I say. Esme has nothing to say to that, and I smile wider as I watch her flex her hands into fists, only smoothed out by Hawthorne’s touch.

Saint cracks the tepid silence as she steps around me and sits in the armchair, tugging me along to squish into it together. Our backs are to the wall, giving us the widest vantage point. From here, I can see another group has formed outside of Esme’s merry band of bloodthirsty bitches—a trio of girls, mousy brunettes, whose names I can’t remember except for one—Reagan. They never speak above a whisper, so it’s no wonder Esme hadn’t found them threatening enough to recruit. She picks her battles a little more carefully now. She waits to see what’s underneath before she comes for them. Strategic.

Saint leans in and whispers, “No sight of Pentatonic.”

“Spoken too soon,” I correct as the door cracks open.

Penthesilea draws every eye, but not a single greeting, as she enters the common room. Her pink dress flutters around her shins, dotted with lightly sparkling strawberries. She steps against the wall, smiling when I meet her eyes, wiggling her fingers in a wave. I give a half wave back and watch as she turns to look at Esme and her alliance. Jacqueline is staring at her intently. But no one dares approach.

There’s a target on Penthesilea’s back now, even if she acts like she doesn’t feel it, a thin veil that separates her from the rest of us.

Finally, after what feels like a century too long, Mr. Caine opens the door. “The Repartee awaits.” And we are shepherded off, all good little lambs brought to the slaughterhouse. No, wait, I guess that’s tomorrow. It doesn’t have to be. It won’t be. Get it together, Adina.

On the walk down the hall, I track Hawthorne as she falls back from standing at Esme’s side until she’s right next to me. Saint shoots her a wary look over my head.

“Nicely done,” Hawthorne decides, allowing herself to look mildly impressed.

Smugness tugs at my lips. “Thanks. I learned from the best,” I say, keeping my eyes on Esme’s back. Jacqueline has quickly wormed her way into Hawthorne’s abandoned place, whispering to Esme. Esme doesn’t even look at her; it’s how I know she’s seething.

I state the obvious: “Esme doesn’t look happy.”

“She doesn’t want me talking to you. But I want to talk to you,” Hawthorne says.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because… I don’t like just talking to people that are afraid of Esme. Fearful people make boring conversationalists. And they don’t talk to me. They talk to her,” Hawthorne says plainly. Then her brow furrows. “She’s too distracted to pay them attention, though. And these kinds of girls, they’re needy for attention. That’s how you can gain their loyalty. But if I’m here talking to you, instead, she’s going to watch you all evening and spend the rest of the night asking me what we talked about, poring over every word.”

“Why do you report to her?” I ask. “Is she holding something over you?”

Hawthorne barks a laugh that doesn’t belong to her, a high-pitched sound that rings animalistic. Like a hyena. It’s a pitch-for-pitch match with Esme’s. A not-right tingle zips up my spine once more.

Hawthorne slaps her hand to her mouth and shakes her head. “I’ll tell her you said that. She’ll find it funny,” she says inexplicably.

“Ladies,” Mr. Caine calls again, far ahead of us. His impatience is obvious as he looks down at a slightly dented, glinting pocket watch. He snaps it shut.

No one speaks any more as we descend and pick up the pace. I grow tenser. Leighton has told us a few details as to what a Repartee is, but we know now not to take words at face value.